The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

“Fine, prude.”

I let the door close quietly. I hadn’t known my nickname was so popular until I’d met the Russos. I wondered if that’s what everyone believed—that the Sweet Abelli was easy and sweet about it.

My stomach turned. I didn’t care so much about what others thought of me, but the rumor hit closer to home than I wished. A man was killed because I’d made the mistake of sleeping with him, and now I was lusting after my sister’s fiancé. Her comment struck the right nerve.

The girls exited the bathroom with a fresh wave of perfume and didn’t even notice me standing in the shadows.

I leaned against the wall as the past came to the surface.

I’d met him at the carnival.

Warm breeze, sun, and laughter from the Ferris wheel high above. Smells of fried funnel cakes, popcorn, and cotton candy. At least, that’s what I imagined it to be in the heat of summer. Instead, it was as empty as a Sweet Abelli smile. Nothing but snow, concrete, and the whistle of cold wind.

He worked at a mall nearby as a security guard, as well as two other part-time jobs to support his mother and younger sister, who I could only imagine were struggling to get by while mourning a son and brother. The awful truth was, I didn’t even know his name. I wouldn’t tell him mine, so with a smile he’d told me he wouldn’t share his until I shared mine. Now, he’d never get to tell another anything.

He was blond, charismatic, and easygoing. I hadn’t known such light-heartedness existed, and it had charmed me in a way. However, I was raised and deeply embedded in a different world altogether. A world that ended his life.

The most bitter part was that the guilt was fading, like the image out of a rear-view mirror as the car drove away.

I leaned my head against the wall, tilted it up, and twisted the ring on my middle finger. He gave it to me as a lark. However, now it had become a promise to myself to make restitution for my mistake. And I wouldn’t take it off until I had.

A familiar awareness brushed my bare skin.

I rolled my head to the side to see Nicolas standing at the end of the corridor, his hands in his pockets and that lazy stare all mine.

“And here I thought I’d never see you out of pink.”

His deep voice touched my ears, and I shivered from the sound filling the silent hallway. Never see you out of pink. My mind took that to a dirty place, where I wore nothing and he looked on. My breasts tightened as warmth ran a languid path between my legs. I swallowed and pushed the breathlessness away.

I hardly ever wore black, but I was feeling edgy tonight. Maybe because I knew he would be here and I needed the strength black could offer to pretend he didn’t exist. He’d only ever seen me in white or pink—it wasn’t a surprise he looked at me like I was a ridiculous girl most of the time. But that was for the best. If he had returned this fascination, I could only imagine the chaos it could bring, and I wasn’t starting another scandal. Ever.

Still leaning against the wall, I pulled up the hem of my dress until my hot pink heels were showing.

A hint of a smile pulled on his lips, and he wiped at it with a thumb before sliding his hand back in his pocket. Butterflies erupted low in my stomach. If I ever cursed—really cursed—it would be to describe how handsome he was. It deserved a salacious word, otherwise no one could understand the magnitude of it.

“What do you know Sweet Abelli to mean?” I asked, my expression thoughtful. I had to know if I was considered a whore to the entire Cosa Nostra. Living in naivety wasn’t my style, no matter how much I disliked the truth.

He raised a dark brow, maintaining a ten-foot distance. “You want me to say it?”

I gave my head a slow nod, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.

How bad was it?

His gaze sparked with dark amusement, though a small amount of bitterness leaked through. “One of the sweetest pieces of ass in New York, easily.”

I blinked. Swallowed. Made a hmm noise to hide my breathlessness. That’s just what he knew it to mean, not necessarily what he believed, right? Still, I couldn’t help a weight from forming between my legs. My dress from feeling abrasive and hot.

This attraction burned, and before it scarred me forever, I needed to treat him differently. If I regarded him like family—which he would soon be—maybe then it would fade away.

I pushed off the wall and walked toward him. The old restaurant’s atmosphere held a charge. I suddenly wondered if the feeling was merely a reaction between two combustible forces, or if my crush had sunk so deep into my skin the air was thicker to breathe in his presence.

With an exhale that could be construed as relief, I said, “Well, that’s not as bad as I was assuming.” I stood in front of him, within arms’ length. A feeling of significance rushed me whenever I was in his company, like I had the attention of the most popular boy at school.

The past still gripped me, enough that the present seemed easy, courage not difficult to find. I stepped closer and ran my finger across the edge of his jacket button.

His voice held a variety of his natural darkness; this one was rougher, not in the least amused. “What did I say about assuming?”

Somehow, his demanding, bossy nature only made my cheeks warm. How easily this man told people what to do and expected immediate obedience. A silver spoon must have fed him his entire childhood.